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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23424613">mythweaver</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovetheory/pseuds/lovetheory'>lovetheory</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Haikyuu!!</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Emotional Constipation, First Kiss, M/M, Making Out, Mild Orpheus and Eurydice Allusions, Myth Exploration</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 10:00:30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,254</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23424613</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovetheory/pseuds/lovetheory</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Seven years later, Tobio reminisces the most galling piece of advice delineated to him by Kei Tsukishima during a tutoring session proctored by the devil himself and pictures this: silken lashes, pink flesh, velvety mouth, supple fingers of only two weeks ago, always far-flung. In the rain, he understands the language of desire, seeks it. It clings to his shirt, soaks his skin, it meets him head on.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Kageyama Tobio/Tsukishima Kei</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>110</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>mythweaver</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>welcome to my first fic publication. tsukikage brought upon a monster within me &amp; this is she.</p><p>if you need a tsukikage education, please don't hesitate to use this as material. i like to think of this as the consequence of all the emotions they harbored towards each other &amp; all that distance they built up between them that's thickened with time. they're so dumb, &amp; i will enjoy it. i can only hope you do so too.</p><p>many thanks to my constant beta reader, simone. i adore her. it has been the greatest experience working with her on this till the very last minute.</p><p>i've made a <a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6c3rCFMcXOEBLfBV8FHcGp">playlist</a> for you to resort to if you wish to get the full experience, &amp; i do recommend you re/visit mythweaver through this act.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>To follow is to come after in sequence, to recognize a cosmic body, to be a consequence to it. To follow is to pay attention to the precedence, to undertake a course of action, to recognize you only come next, second, third, fourth, fifth. Kei leads, Tobio follows. Seven years later, Tobio reminisces the most galling piece of advice delineated to him by Kei Tsukishima during a tutoring session proctored by the devil himself and pictures this: silken lashes, pink flesh, velvety mouth, supple fingers of only two weeks ago, always far-flung. In the rain, he understands the language of desire, seeks it. It clings to his shirt, soaks his skin, it meets him head on.</p><p>Kei Tsukishima is a ghost, a face from the supermarket at 5:00 P.M., convenience store at 10:00 P.M. He's long limbs and soft short curls, and an inarguably pretty face (this, Tobio decided with characteristic spite at age seventeen). He presumably lives in Tobio Kageyama's past but the latter isn't well-equipped in the luck department outside of volleyball and so they cross paths in Sendai to a soundtrack of city pop tunes played privately through headphones of their own. They talk on occasion, just the two of them, attempts at pleasantries unfolding in an air of awkwardness. Living in the same city—Tobio for the time being, as he resides with his older sister—creates the need for connection. Mostly, they come together through others—fellow Karasuno first years from his batch—and then it’s all banter from there, or the pretense of inexistence.</p><p>It is 10:30 P.M. when the memory revisits Tobio. In August, it rains, and because of its implausibility, he had never thought to bring an umbrella with him. Seizing him is the fervor of that particular moment: his fifteen year-old self's vexation quelled by the condescending smirk of fifteen year-old Kei’s face and a mantra of calm downs on his part as Kei reached for his pen in the silence he had commanded before breaking it and starting on his calculus tutorial. Tobio is predisposed to carrying out orders but should he do so with the bane of his existence on several occasions, he must remember why they had arrived at such animosity. And he does, with a greater amount than a handful of self-indignation, its fervor laps at third parties every chance. His abhorrence orbits around the reality of his past, the weapon Kei yields upon him, through gaze, distance and words. King. The nickname was a match that lit a fuse of unsuccessfully buried middle school trauma. Tobio wants every bit of what Kei gives for himself, freed of the notion of his past. He wants Kei not how Tadashi has him, nor how Tetsuro does, but as he would. There was a boundary they quietly, reluctantly agreed to withhold despite the constant attempts at pleasantries and nonchalance, the space between them that only lengthened and thickened with the time they spent at avoidance.</p><p>In the inexplicable number of minutes he's been under the rain, only now does he feel attuned to it: a heavy droplet slides down the back of his ear to his neck, bleeding into his shirt, and a torrent of clarity rushes in. Tobio wants Kei to want him as he wants Kei. The face that Tobio’s gaze lingered on when Kei would lean into Tadashi to address him privately. The ease that comes with apprehending Tetsuro’s acquaintance – anyone but Tobio’s, and especially the aforementioned. The mind, clever and resourceful. A mouth that articulates brusque notions. Neck, shoulder blades, calves. Focal points at time-outs. The hands, Tobio had taken notice, were smooth, uncalloused, holding chopsticks and reaching into dinnerware to select food. He was only ever allowed commonplace junctures to retain and prolong his contemplations; it’s all his dignity allows. All these roots of desire are incorporated into their daily lives and here the truth of it was, manifesting.</p><p>Tobio and the rest of his first year crew had collectively walked Kei home at one point so he knows the way to his house, recognizes the welcoming front door step with potted plants on either side of the door, all the way to the windowsills. On their recent visit as a group, Kei’s mother had entertained them, offering instant noodles for a midnight snack after the men had gone out for beer and street food, accompanied by recollections of everyday life. He wonders if it would be her who would answer the door once more this evening. He hopes it isn't. He hopes it's Kei. He needs to speak to Kei right now. Needs to tell him the truth of everything, or a portion of it, a great portion of it. Water trickles down his face, making him blink rapidly and breathe through his mouth. Shame builds up from the sight of him he imagines himself to be at present, and rests the weight of his ego down at the moment he presses the doorbell. Fuck it, he thinks. Kei, he thinks. His shirt is heavy with the downpour, upper body cold. Kei. Kei. A sliver of light slices through the darkness, illuminating a portion of Tobio’s face when Kei’s frame appears in the space between the front door and its casing.</p><p>“Kageyama,” he declares, accusatory but soft, confusion clear in his voice. He stands before Tobio in a pine green v-neck sleeved shirt, black loose jogger pants, and slippers. The attire emanates warmth, a feat that is the very thing that Tobio seeks. Relief seeps in slowly, a distant feeling; Tobio is too engrossed in the familiarity of everything in his line of vision, including the headphones that rest around Kei’s neck in an idle gesture of respect.</p><p>“So it’s Kageyama now,” Tobio observes with a hum, faintly amused. He grinds his teeth together from the chill that overcomes him, bone-deep; he’s got his fists on either side of him, balled up one minute, open the next, fingers flexing. Movement beats the effects of this weather, he figures, while also serving as something to do in the brief interval of silence. He latches on to the absence of his nickname, feels it like a buzz on his skin.</p><p>"Is there anything you need?" To both their surprise, sympathy has dictated Kei’s queries, a fraction of it apparent in his usual droll sense of speaking. Ironically, he was readable in this moment—nearly unreadable. Was it the spectacle of a rain-drenched Tobio that constructed these words to coax such a feeling out of them? The in-betweens of responses are too short to house the wonder he’s been filled with.</p><p>Relief nears, bringing with it a breathlessness Tobio tries to mask when he answers, "Do you have a shirt?" At the last minute, a tinge of embarrassment for the drab response makes him hitch his breath, wanting to follow it up with something less of that and far more interesting, but Kei responds smoothly, without reserve.</p><p>"Yeah." A pause as he moves back and opens the door wider to let him through. “Come in.”</p><p>A row of shoes is to their right. Tobio alternates between balancing on his right and left feet, slipping off his trainers at the door, leaving them outside by the welcome mat and potted plants along with his socks in their soaked state.</p><p>"Be careful," Kei says, as though suddenly remembering what possible misfortunes there are to meet Tobio in this August rain. "Stay there, I'll get you a towel."</p><p>Tobio watches a roaming Kei resembling a lost puppy, awaiting his return on the bath mat that greets him at the entrance of the house, designed to withstand the state of visitors coming from cold weathers like this.</p><p>Kei’s gait is relaxed, an effect of being in a familiar place. It is in his expression that Tobio notes a modicum of indecision, as though Kei has to think very hard to take care of Tobio. There’s an underlying tenderness to it that Tobio has to fight himself from fixating on. Trepidation expands when he wants, yearns. His task requires enough self-control to last him throughout the night.</p><p>Kei returns with a salmon pink bath towel, cutting off Tobio’s train of thought as he takes it from him and drapes it around his frame before taking the fabric in one fist and rubbing it at his scalp, combing his hair. Its smoothness coupled with Kei’s polite and curious fleeting glances—some lingering—graze his scalp and his eyelids, caress his brain.</p><p>“My shirts are upstairs.” An inkling of nervousness accompanies his words, their previous exchange blossoming into something far bigger than what they’d expected, equally heavy on both, but—</p><p>Tobio is resolute in his task, he comes to know this eventually; he agrees, in the most gentle manner, “I’ll come with,” and nods Kei’s way.</p><p>“Yeah,” Kei breathes, turning around and leading them through his house.</p><p>The air shifts as they ascend the flight of stairs to his room. The knowledge of bodies at rest behind locked doors, objects spanning these spaces and coursing unto dimly lit hallways blurred, softening around the edges, molding a sensation that grazed his drenched skin. Watching Kei’s obscured frame, he feels like Eurydice. A quiet plea forms at the tip of his tongue, only to himself. Don’t look back, not yet. I want to look at you where you're near without disturbance. This is the only moment of peace he will get tonight. Whatever happens will bring about a storm, far greater than an August rain. The course of desire is monstrous in a way that it is immense and ardent.</p><p>A knob turns. A light flickers. A creak of wood resonates throughout the room. After a while, an awkward silence they haven’t quite outgrown since teenagehood settles over them. Kei heads to his drawer to pull out a blue cotton t-shirt while Tobio stops by the rug at the door, intending not to make a mess.</p><p>Tobio watches as Kei walks up to him and holds out the item. Before he can grasp it, Kei asks, slowly drawing back his arm, “Why were you out there in the rain?” There’s a contemplative look on his face, an unwavering gaze coinciding Tobio’s.</p><p>“I remembered your house,” he blurts, matter-of-factly. Mentally, that coaxes a laugh out of him. It couldn’t be more true. Timing is a funny, nearly enigmatic thing, if not for years of repression—definitely funny.</p><p>“And?” A whisper.</p><p>“And you’re in here.”</p><p>Kei blinks at that before moving to the bed to perch himself at its edge. “Stop being vague, King.”</p><p>“So we’re back to King, huh?”</p><p>“Always has been.”</p><p>“What does it mean?” Tobio begins, because he has to know. “What does it mean when you call me ‘King’?” He has to know why and how it’s come to be impermanent. “Has anything changed?” He does not wish to guess, he’s done so long enough. “You used to chastise me. It used to be an insult, but I know we’re at least,” he falters, shy, “friends now,” he says, light as a feather. “So tell me, Tsukishima.” He walks up to Kei, plucking the t-shirt from his loose grasp. “What does it mean when you call me ‘King’?”</p><p>A long pause transpires as the two scrutinize one another before Kei speaks. “It means you’re Tobio Kageyama, King of the Court. Japan’s best setter, but also,” here, he emphasizes, “especially, Karasuno’s,” like he’s theirs, like he’s his.</p><p>“I want to kiss you,” Tobio breathes out, breathes in, all to the rapid succession of his heartbeat. He can feel himself grow lighter, feel the cold leave his body, words already at their destination across from him. For what feels like one whole minute, it does nothing. It does not blink at him nor move from its spot a little ways from the bed. Just as a dam is about to break open from within Tobio, it secures it, responds.</p><p>“Put on the t-shirt, then do.” Kei voices, monotonous, with an underlying sobriety to his words Tobio is familiar with. His expression does not waver in the emotions it bears: sincerity, curiosity, and anticipation, Tobio notes, with an exhilaration he tampers with outwardly.</p><p>In the hand that does not hold the t-shirt, he grasps the towel draped around his frame and places it on the nearest chair. He alternates between glancing at Kei and staring pointedly at the distance so as not to disturb the air. His heart lodges itself in his throat as he reaches for the hem of the shirt, acutely aware of Kei’s refusal to turn around for him. At this moment, he learns that Kei is a thing that wants, just as he is. He feels eyes on him and wills himself to believe its reality. The wet shirt is held uncertainly in one hand before Kei moves forward, reaching a hand out to take it from him. Topless, colder than before, but also indisputably warm, Tobio knows this is one of their internal battles, like the rest of them all. There’s a refusal to stand down that weaves itself around their choices; this is no exception. Kei turns around and exits the room, Tobio’s eyes following him the whole time. The manner in which he holds the wet shirt in hand tells Tobio that it’s just a matter of disposing of it, so he slips Kei’s t-shirt on, shrugs to let it hug his frame comfortably.</p><p>He is stunned by the absence of mortification. Desire so thick, magnanimous, he saw through it. Kei catches him standing in place when he returns with a pair of gym shorts.</p><p>"Bathroom's down the hall and so is the hamper," he utters, turning to the window and facing away from him. Bastard, Tobio thinks, half-heartedly, nerves making him feel a certain way, wanting to laugh in bitterness from how on-brand Kei’s returned to be.</p><p>Tobio follows, spots his shirt when he gets there and washes his face and arms before he returns. There is nothing so distinctly Kei about the space and his mind is far away from his surroundings to take it all in.</p><p>It’s true that earlier, Kei had acted short of himself. Patient and indulging, giving the satisfaction of Tobio instead of his own. It’s the latter that’s the turning point. The ease with which it came with, the recognition of Tobio’s heart and the exchange that Kei spurred on.</p><p>Back in the room, Tobio walks in on Kei in the same spot. Not two seconds later he turns around to meet Tobio’s eye. Shame is a remote island Tobio leaves with every step he takes towards Kei. He does not wish nihility its passage in time; he came here with a hunger. There’s a silent agreement between them for Kei to remain in place as Tobio gently holds on to his headphones, fingertips running through the headband and pushes, oh so lightly by the neck, Kei’s face to his. They breathe in tandem when he does so, communicating through gaze and touch, through each audible inhale and exhale. A wordless surrender to desire.</p><p>Unbidden, tender: Kei’s eyes created a mirror of the feeling. His body language translated to trust towards a foreign circumstance. He leaned into Tobio without protest and laid down his faith on his roaming fingertips, the hairs on the back of his neck rising in delight and anticipation. He had known to follow, to come after in sequence, to recognize a cosmic body, to come next, second.</p><p>Tobio kisses him with heart: gentle, unprobing. A press of pink mouth to pink mouth, a confession, theirs, in the quiet hum of the room and the faint rainfall tapping against the glass window.</p><p>Kei kisses him back with equal languor, imprinting a saccharine sensation on one another. His arms carefully envelop Tobio’s frame, pulling him flush against him, guiding Tobio as he withdraws the headphones from around Kei’s neck and deposits it on top of the drawer behind him. The act is a transcription of an ever increasing vigor, rendered through gaze and touch that can only come about within the sphere of trust. Tobio dedicates his next kiss in gratitude towards that, rapture making him fall deeper into it. Kei meets him in its depths, tonguing his upper lip.</p><p>Tobio’s walls crumble at the contact, the implications it bears: an admission of craving. His surroundings feel very far away yet so close as he eyes the bed, leading them there. He sits Kei down at the edge of the mattress where he had been earlier, scrutinizes him before pressing a kiss to the side of his mouth as he stands before him. He leans into him, the weight of Tobio’s upper body bearing down on Kei’s shoulders as he presses his palms on either side of him. Kei breathes it all in with his eyes shut, moved by the constant tenderness. He looks patient and giving as though he too wishes to prolong this moment. He is so quiet, it makes Tobio’s heart ache as he listens to the sound of the man’s breathing mingling with his own.</p><p>This time, Kei, with his face pressed against Tobio’s, moves against him, nose grazing his skin before it meets Tobio’s, mouths brushing against one another. Kei's face is tilted in a way that the aforementioned components intersect at every shift, his glasses perched precariously on his nose. This earns a faint look of amusement from Tobio who has taken it upon himself to slip off Kei's glasses. “What are we doing?” Tobio asks innocently through a whisper. Their chests rise and fall to the rhythm of their hearts beating at once. “I just wanted to kiss you.”</p><p>“I’m letting you kiss me,” Kei smiles hazily, blinking calmly to get used to the sight. He palms his glasses when Tobio offers it to him, setting it on a corner of the bed where he intends to let it remain untouched.</p><p>Kei weaves his truth through motion, closing the distance between them, creating friction. Presses two fingers on Tobio's lips, runs them through, simultaneously reliving an earlier memory and drawing on a fresh memory. The sensation of holding a rosebud arises within him and he kisses Tobio where the ghost of his touch only a second old rests upon.</p><p>Tobio takes his truth and makes it his own, theirs to share. Two truths either create or eliminate a myth. In this case, it is the latter. Somewhere along the way, he had sat himself down on Kei's lap. They meld into each other with such quiet ferocity, the feeling heightens when Kei tugs Tobio's wet strands of hair. In response, Tobio touches his fingers to the hem of Kei's shirt, traces it, before lifting it so that skin lands on skin. The act of brashness makes Kei shiver, in turn making Tobio explore the span of his back with the knowledge that Kei has let himself be reeled in by touch alone. Kei’s receptiveness was so taut, if Tobio plucked it, it would make a glorious sound.</p><p>Until now, they were a myth kith and kin had perused upon meeting each other. Bodies of possibilities had always accompanied the very idea of them, spurred on by the intensity of their exchanges whether it be through gaze or banter. Tonight, in this rain shower, Tobio holds the memory to heart, revelling in the metamorphosis of their relationship. Once a myth, now realized.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hey, if you enjoyed yourself, please consider leaving a comment below,<br/>① whether or not you're an ao3 user,<br/>② are reading on ibooks or google play books or<br/>③ a social media app, say, twitter, etc.<br/>you don't have to be logged on to do so &amp; please note that it's the primary way i, as the author, will know how this made you feel.<br/>thank you for your time.<br/>before i go, i am once again promoting its <a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6c3rCFMcXOEBLfBV8FHcGp">playlist</a>.<br/></p></blockquote></div></div>
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